What Boys Are Made Of
by soviets
Summary: It's been four years since Kyle's set foot in South Park and his return at age 18 gives him the chance to make sense of the feelings he had when he was young. If only he could get over a new found distance between him and Stan. StanxKyle, different POVs
1. Kyle: Remember

**Summery:** It's been four years since Kyle's set foot in South Park and his return at age eighteen reminds him of how things use to be and what life use to be like; now he's finally able to make sense of the feelings he had in youth. StanxKyle, different POVs

**AN:** I really have no idea where I'm going with this djlkfsjdkfsdfldkfjsldf SO HOPEFULLY SOMETHING COMES OUT! This is my first serious fanfic so a review would be kickass!

**Warnings: **Initial OOC, swearing, slash pairing (STYLE), various POVs

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**Kyle:**

It's been way too long. It's been four years.

He inhaled the stale air of his empty school dorm. Four fucking years. With his eyes closed, he tried to remembered the things he use to have, the places he use to live, all the people he use to know – their faces, their voices, the feelings he had at all those particular moments seemed so familiar to him – but it's been too long. He was sure they were different now.

His jeans were unbuttoned hanging from his hips, a sneaker casually hanging from his left foot, casually hanging from the edge of the bed and his tee-shirt twisted around him from the momentary troubled slumber he'd engaged in; an arm on his stomach, the other thrown to the side, idly waiting for some sort of command or authority to do something useful. But he was too tired to move and, conversely, too bothered to fall back asleep. 6:00AM flashed the red lettering from the alarm clock on his bedside. Four fucking long years away. He finally exhaled.

"Kyle?" The voice had said on the telephone last night, "It's me. Ike."

"I know. It's not like it's that big of fucking mystery." He breathed back, sitting in his chair at the desk that occupied most of his confined, cramped, bitter 15 feet by 10 feet dormitory – the glamorous high school lifestyle. "Why are you calling?"

Ike was in his teens – 14? 16? Kyle couldn't remember – and wasn't the type to make small talk with his adoptive brother. Kyle, regardless of their difference in blood, was raised to be the same way: simplistically quiet in the mouthpiece, oddly dazed from the earpiece – which was quite a surprised for the rest of the town who seemed to view their parents as something of the exact opposite; Gerald Broflovski was the highly acclaimed, in-your-face, self owning lawyer and his wife, Sheila Broflovski, who needs no introduction. The boys were close, like survivors of a war with a battlefield of loud conversing from their parents; their bond was their silence, their natural reserve, their obsession with observing the situation instead of participating in it. Ike and Kyle had never, throughout the course of their childhood, spent much time together but their brotherhood was a silent vow they both subconciously decided to take.

"I was wondering when you'd be here." Ike muttered, clearing his throat mid-sentence. There was a hint of sadness in his tone as if only now, at the eve of seeing his brother after four years, he'd realized how much he missed him. "Mom's – I dunno – she's kinda panicking."

"When? I don't know. Tomorrow night? I haven't thought about it." Lies in desperation to sound indifferent. Nervous and worried, Kyle _knew_ when he would be there and he _had_ thought about it. He reran it in his head twenty times before and placed this act for Ike, this pretending like he didn't care, like none of this mattered to him. Like he woke up that morning and had thought to himself, I think I'll endure all the things I tried to abandon today. Sounds lovely. Ike breathed - or was it a sigh? Kyle couldn't tell anymore.

"I've cleaned the house, like, seven times already. She says that she wants you to know how much we all miss you and so, apparently, we're going to show you just how much by terminating every speck of dust within a 7 feet perimeter of the house."

Kyle smiled – 13. Ike was 13. He remembered now.

Four years. Four years. It's been four years since he's set foot in South Park, since he'd spoken to anyone back home but Ike and his parents – though this wasn't due to any vendetta. It happened in his freshmen year of High School, when he was fourteen. That was when the letter came. "Congratulations," it proclaimed to his distraught face which he tried to hide from his gleaming parents, "You've been accepted." These had been the words he'd been dreading to hear since the day his parents applied him to that god forsaken metropolitan Alta Vista Academy, that queer-shit strictly boys' school in Boston. "Congratulations," his family had proclaimed to his distraught face he openly allowed them to view in hopes that they'd realize this posh shit wasn't what he wanted, "You've been accepted – have you packed your things?" He left at the end of summer, in a bitter state of a silent protest still clinging on the hope that it was all a sick joke. Leave South Park? He remembered thinking. Leave everyone? Leave his home behind, leave his friends behind, leave his life behind. How could they _fucking_ do this to me?

Upon Kyle's arrival to Alta Vista, he ignored the telephone, loudly stating his case through silence, refusing to speak to the people who had sentenced him to this impending academic hell. His parents, while concerned at first, viewed it as he was too busy in his studies to have small talk over the phone and excused his distance and, ultimately, his plea for the approval to return. But what had started as a teenage brood in the first month of his institution became four years of minimal communication between the Present him and him of the Past and in turn, of South Park and everything that came with South Park – his promises to keep in touch, to tell everyone his latest news went unfulfilled. He couldn't face them anymore, that bitter longing to return. He didn't even visit his past in his thoughts. His means of surviving the solitude had been to forget his previous affairs and, obviously, the life he had loved, aware that his fate had been sealed and he, young and alone in a new city, could do nothing about it. Alone in Room 45, a room number that the school associated with his name in paperwork – they used the term 'his home' to refer to the dry room - he had thought to himself himself in the middle of the night that maybe it was time to grow up.

So grow the fuck up, he demanded - and he followed his own advice.

But maybe he did it too fast.

Kyle didn't want to be a doctor like his parents gently had pushed during dinner conversations before they had even sent the application for him to this prison and God only knew the things he would do to avoid the career path is father had chosen. A lawyer? No thank you. A lonely red headed boy, small in his stature, defending the innocent in the court of law, subtle in his speech and gentle in his movements; he doubt he could sway anything to join his side. He could see himself now, standing in front of his desk; the judge peering down at him from his heavenly position with his heavenly gavel in his heavenly courthouse. "Can you speak up, Broflovski?"

So the South Park Kyle didn't want to be what his enrollment in the Alta Vista Academy would insure: Success. Power. Money. Emptiness. After the first few months, he found a solution to this. If he couldn't change his fate, he would change himself to love his fate. So South Park Kyle became Studious Kyle but wrongly so – he forgot them, all of them; he forgot his life, his town. But with this ignorance of South Park which was a town that had been half of his heart and soul, Kyle began participating in this droning ceremonious ritual he called real life. Of course it wasn't like he couldn't see that the loss of his town had caused his dejection but his naïve mind treated it like South Park had been his friend and friends lost touch all the time; it was just the way things had turned out. Then he started to lie. Compulsively. He even started to lie to cover up his lies; he changed himself. The friends he had now had no idea who he was or who he really wanted to be, they had no idea what was on his mind or why it was there. They smiled at him with genuine love and he smiled back, praying that they won't see past his mask of sincerity. He even faked his way through a two month relationship – which he decided to end when he lost interest, ignoring her until she caught his drift – finding that sex had been a momentous distraction from his loneliness – that's what he made himself believe anyways. What was her name again?

"You still remember where the house is?" Ike had tried to joke, desperately filling the miles between them with some sort of substance; anything but this uncomfortable hush of unfamiliarity. He laughed. It was forced, Kyle could tell.

"Yeah." He had replied bluntly with no hint of emotion, "I remember."

Kyle remembered his name; Kyle remembered him in those self declared glory days. Stan Marsh. He couldn't remember the last time they talked and the vision of him Kyle had in his mind was the spunky 15 year old – though he doubt that Stan looked the same. It's been four fucking years, my friend. Kyle didn't like thinking about Stan these days. He wondered if Stan even bothered to think about him. Or remember him. It became painful to imagine, the conversation he would have if he happened to run into the boy. Hi, how are you? Sorry I left without saying goodbye and sorry I called you only once to tell you I couldn't make it to your hockey game because I had already been gone by then. Sorry, really. Oh, by the way. Do you remember me?

He turned his head a little to face his alarm clock, opening one of his green eyes. 6:01AM. Now that he was hours away from boarding that plane back, he realized that he didn't want it anymore. Empty headed and grown use to the constant falsehood he ensued on himself, he wasn't sure if he could face that quant little mountain town, that place where he actually, unlike now, grew. He suddenly realized that he couldn't stand the idea of it – the idea of being complete again.

6:02AM. He inhaled


	2. Ike: Snow

**Summery:** It's been four years since Kyle's set foot in South Park and his return at age eighteen reminds him of how things use to be and what life use to be like; now he's finally able to make sense of the feelings he had in youth. StanxKyle, different POVs

**AN:** OKAY HERE WE GO! Chapter 2! There's a lot of foundational information about what's been going on BUT THE STORY WILL PROCEED TO GET ACTIONY AT CHAPTER 3, I hope. STAN'S POINT OF VIEW IS NEXT. This chapter is a little longer and the next one is looking to be even longer still. Thanks for the reviews and for adding this story to your alert list. REALLY INSPIRED ME TO KEEP GOING. (Also, I realized that I had the age difference between Kyle and Ike wrong. Ike is actually 13, not 15 – I've fixed this).

**Warnings: **Initial OOC, swearing, slash pairing (STYLE), various POVs

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**Ike:**

This winter had felt unusual – oddly out of shape and impudent to the typical winter; a looming eerie feeling had come from the overdue snows, the record breaking measurements, the weather machines and environmentalist who couldn't figure out what was wrong with that Colorado mountain town; it had lightly snowed for two days – somewhere in the middle of January – and no other time that winter. Somber and in a loss, the South Park inhabitants faced their first snowless November, their first snowless Christmas, their first snowless winter. With this oddity hovering over the shoulders of citizens who had their shovels still in the corner of their yard and their sledges tucked away in the garage, South Park awkwardly danced their way through the months and were, for the first time, happy at the approaching summer, a season they, at any other year, would have ostracized; it was a small piece of acquaintance to the absence of snow; anything for ordinariness, anything for fluency, and anything to avoid that daunting sentiment of change.

South Park was small – in spite of its own local hospital and airport – and, in turn, familiarity with the courses of the world around and in their town blossomed in nature; so, unsurprisingly, familiarity with one another was bound to flourish. Very similar to the past winter without snow, when Kyle had left years ago and the Broflovskis were short one boy, the South Park inhabitants faced their first empty classroom seat, their first empty spot on the baseball and basketball team and their first empty chair in church. While they were too oblivious to put a finger on what had been missing, what had caused that sense of unusualness that one fall before school had started; the Broflovskis were not as oblivious – especially not Ike.

So when Kyle had called the house last week in the dead of night, muttering about how he'd taken his final exams a week early, how he didn't have to show up to the last few days of class, how he didn't want to attend his high school graduation, and how he would be coming home for the summer before college; Ike had, despite the high June temperatures, made a quick glance out the window because, suddenly, he had gotten an odd notion that it was snowing.

"…Ike? Ike…Ike!"

The boy jerked awake, a mess of jet black hair covered by the hood of his jacket and an imprint of the desk surface was plastered on his forehead. He blinked twice into the florescent light, squinted incoherently and swallowed with one hand wiping a drool stain from his flushed cheeks.

"What?" He muttered back, still unable to fully wrap his head on what was happening.

"Class is over, if you haven't noticed – "

" – really? Well, cool – "

" – Not cool." Said Mr. Wyland.

Mr. Wyland was substituting for Mr. Derp who always lost interest in teaching the class towards the end of the year. He was standing above boy, his arms crossed across his chest with the usual glare of disapproval across his middle-aged face. Ike simply stared at the vivid red bowtie glued to the man's neck, contemplating over whether to tell the poor teacher that if he only wore something less particular and eye-catching, his students might not have as much trouble listening to the things he had to say.

"Filmore told me that you slept through the last forty-five minutes of the video," Mr. Wyland scowled, uncrossing his arms but shaking his head in order to maintain the vibe of condemnation he was shooting straight between Ike's eyes. Ike tried to send back a message of apathy by yawning.

"Filmore told you that?" Ike said blankly, stretching his arms above his head.

"Yes, Ike. But that's not the point. The point is – "

The boy coughed, interrupting Mr. Wyland's sentence and casually shrugged, shoving his books and pens into his bag, swinging it over his shoulder as he stood up. After adjusting his shirt and scruffling his hair with a hand, he made for the door; "Good talk, Mr. Wyland so I guess I'll be heading home now." Mr. Wyland called his name in protest, demanding that he stay to speak of his misbehavior, but Ike was already halfway out and in no mood for education; turning on his heels, the boy flashed a defiant smile, "Thanks for being such a great substitute teacher – you really inspire me and my peers to, you know, study harder and…cure cancer and all that."

--

The walk home was always painless and short – Ike's head drifted in and out of reality as he made the trip, finding that he's walked it (four blocks east, make a left on the first corner after the post office and a right at the immediate street and straight down) so many times that it's become second nature to him. His head wondered with the sun shining violently down on the concrete around him, the strap of his bag digging into his shoulder. The earpieces of the music player in his pocket were jammed in place in his ears with music blasting beyond the recommended volume. Had it been any other day, Ike would have been thinking about the Hockey game, the girl that sat in front of him in his art class and the strategy he would use to tackle his homework load in order to finish with time for video games – but it was different today; and he felt different. But the reason was no mystery.

Kyle was coming home.

Ike turned the corner after passing the post office, waving to "hi" to Randy Marsh who seemed to be delivering a package in side. Haven't had walked for more than a minute of turning the corner with his eyes alternating from the cloudless blue sky to his sneakers treading on the sidewalk, Ike heard the call of his name through the transition between songs and, automatically and swiftly, jerked around, simultaneously pulling a single ear piece from his ears in awareness.

"Oh, hi," Ike said with a weak smile, feeling uncomfortable in an instant, "what's up, Mr. Marsh?" Ike had never been very at ease around adults – with the exception of his teachers – and instantly stiffened, hesitant of what exactly to do next.

"Ike, buddy!" Mr. Marsh proclaimed cheerfully, slightly out of breath from the run he'd made from the post office to the street to catch the boy. "Haven't seen you around! How've you been?"

Despite the smile that the boy glued to his face, Ike could feel himself raise an eyebrow in dull pain; he hated that question and any variation of it. Ever since a young age, it had been such a distress to him that so many people found the question necessary to start a casual conversation. How has he been? How was he? As if they really cared. He would always, in courtesy, give the truism – "fine, how are you?" – knowing that they would either return the same answer and the conversation would end there in an awkward goodbye.

In the seconds following when Mr. Marsh had presented the phrase in question, Ike, in return, offered his "fine, how are you?"

"Oh, me? Uhm, yeah. Good, good!" Shoving his hand in his pockets, Mr. Marsh declared. The distance between him and Ike was roughly five feet and unquestionably filled with solid tension. Without a plan of action or any remembrance of why he'd stopped the boy, Mr. Marsh had already run out of things to say only three exchanges into the conversation. The stillness that now hovered above them as they both searched for something to say was unbearable. Ike shifted his weight gawkily between his feet, tugging at a strap on his bag. Mr. Marsh nodded slowly and adverted to the only connection he had with Ike and asked the first question in his head in regards to this: "So," – Mr. Marsh breathed heavily, lightly kicking a piece of gravel off of the sidewalk and onto the street – "have you seen Stan lately? Talked to him at all lately?"

Ike cocked his head to his side, unable to see why the man would have been curious as to something as trivial as such. Stan? What significance did talking to Stan bring to the father? His first thought was that something had been wrong with Stan but that thought was quickly followed by the recognition of Mr. Marsh's desperate attempts to avoid that awkward goodbye Ike had sensed coming since the question of "hi how are you?" had come up. But before he could answer, his thoughts were interrupted by a car that drove pass the two of them, followed by the sound of an overhead airplane. Quickly, the boy stole a glance to his wrist watch – 3:45PM. Kyle said he would be there at 4:30. His heart skipped a beat; his brother might have been on that plane, hovering hundreds of feet above this spinning earth unaware of the events beneath him; sitting alone, scanning though catalogues provided by the airline.

"No, I haven't talked to Stan." Ike finally said, revolving his eyes to the sky, searching back and forth on the blue pallet for that iota.

"Oh then I guess you haven't heard," Mr. Marsh started, quickly looking up to see what the black haired boy had turned his attention to and, when seeing nothing, turned his gaze back to the 13 year old, "about Stan's hockey game. Stan's got his first game in his summer league in two days if you wanna check it out – I know that you're a big hockey fan." Ike still hadn't removed his eyes from the sky, following the airplane closely with only word in his head; _finally._ "Go Bruins…!" Mr. Marsh said with a chuckle, half excitedly and half awkwardly, throwing a fist upwards. With a moment of silence proceeded his attempts to lighten the situation with a joke that lacked in joviality, the man cleared his throat and Ike responded by snapping his head back, "oh, I'm sorry Mr. Marsh, I, uhm, I have to get home now."

"Okay then," the man replied, looking definitely more relieved now that the end to this uncomfortable meeting was in full view, "see you around! Stan's hockey game in two days, don't forget."

"Definitely," responded Ike half-mindedly as he fished for his other earpiece, finding it and plunging himself into his music again. He nodded to Mr. Marsh and turned back around, towards the direction home.

"Oh, wait, I almost forgot." Mr. Marsh quickly added, "Stan wants to know how Kyle's been doing."

Between drums, electric guitars and synthesizers, Ike didn't hear him.

--

Those plastic orange chairs of the airport were more than unwelcoming. With his feet propped up on a chair in the row opposite of the one he and his dad were sitting on, he still shifted in his seat – partcially between the fact that his leg was starting to fall asleep but more because of Kyle. It's not as if they had been waiting long – fifteen minutes at most – it was just this _fucking_ chair and this _fucking_ brother. He could sense his father's stiff anxiety beside him as they sat without saying a word. His mother had not come with them to pick up the boy who had caused all this apprehension as she, convinced that the house wasn't prepared for his miraculous arrival, had chosen to stay behind for a last minute vacuum run and dusting. Ike sat up straighter, placing both of his feet on the brownish carpet of the National Arrivals waiting room.

When he had gotten home after school and the unnerving conversation with Mr. Marsh, Ike had faced his mother's frenzy about rearranging the bathroom, his father's questioning about whether they had the right flight number written on the fridge, and the droning sounds of his own nervous breathing. While his dignity provided that he stay as composed about his brother's arrival as possible, his hands refused to stop sweating. The product of his mother's panic and his father's frustration had been a high speed highway race to the airport that ended in 30 minutes of waiting in those plastic orange chairs.

"What time is it?" His father asked him, finally breaking the silence. Ike shrugged.

"Excited to see Kyle?" Another question. This was Gerald's outlet to his own exhilaration of seeing his son after four years.

"Sure, I guess." Nonchalance was Ike's.

Within saying this, the first person to step through from Kyle's arrival gate was a woman, though her approach had both father and son on their toes. She carried a baby in one arm, a bag in the other and walked pass them with a slight smile. Ike didn't return the smile, finding that his heart had started to beat faster and the plastic orange chair had now gotten, if possible, more painful to sit in.

It was now, after all this time that things would finally change back to the way things had been before. The next to arrive was a man, struggling with his luggage while digging through his pockets for something with the utmost concentration. Ike blinked with his arms folded across his chest with brown eyes fastened on the double doors.

In that split second between the doors' sliding open for the third time to unveil the main crowd of rushing passengers and his father's frenetic "do you see him?" as he stood up, everything that had happened within the past week blew up in Ike's brain: What did Kyle look like now? A man kissed his wife hello.

It's been four years and the boy hasn't bothered to even attach a picture to those rare emails. Three small girls skipped past, each carrying a equally small backpacks.

What did he remember about this life? It had been so long since he's been part of it. A young couple laughed as they walked. And what could Ike talk about to Kyle? What did Ike ever talk about? A middle-aged woman stopped to slip into her jacket. How long was he going to stay?

The double doors closed behind the last to leave the gate. Kyle. Kyle. His clever, ardent, idiosyncratic, red-headed big brother.

"…Dad? Ike?…"

Why did he wait so long to come back? Why did it feel like it was snowing?


	3. Stan: Undistinguish

**Summery:** It's been four years since Kyle's set foot in South Park and his return at age eighteen reminds him of how things use to be and what life use to be like; now he's finally able to make sense of the feelings he had in youth. StanxKyle, different POVs

**AN:** GAAAAAHHH. This took a while. MY SCAPEGOAT/ESCUSE FOR EVERYTHING: School. I rewrote this chapter a couple of times because I just couldn't get it right…Kyle's POV next chapter!

**Warnings: **Initial OOC, swearing, slash pairing (STYLE), various POVs

**Stan:**

"Marsh!, You son of a bitch! Pay attention!"

Let's face it. He wasn't paying a single ounce of attention to what was happening around him in the street. His knuckles gripped tightly around the steering wheel, his foot place gently on the brakes – a car horn blared loudly in his ears as a signal from a fellow driver who was dissatisfied with his previous actions. His habit to make sharp and uninhibited lane changes that lacked the chivalrous turn signal made him very unpopular on the road. Stan blinked, jerking the car slightly while he jerked himself back from the clouds.

What had he been thinking about? Suddenly, he couldn't remember.

"Damn." Kenny breathed, relaxing after having tensed in the passenger seat and quickly reached for the seat belt, choosing to fasten it after all, now that he realized the potential danger he was in, "do you mind, Stan? I would really prefer to make it home alive, please."

Stan presented his courtesy chuckle for Kenny's smart remark, shifting slightly in the leather seat of his dad's silver SUV – it was a new car, believe it or not; granted it lacked the new car smell due to the countless visits to the drive-thru that Cartman demanded and the shiny coat of flawless paint was covered by a thin layer of dust. His dad use to pay him to wash the car but Stan had lost interest in being paid petty change a long time ago, regardless of the fact that those household chores are his only source of any type of an income. He was too damn apathetic to keep a steady job.

"Don't miss the turn, fag – and why the fuck are the windshield wipers on?" Kenny wasn't lying about the windshield wipers. They were on – they were always on – and looked decently out of place in the sunny June weather. Stan always saw the drivers of passing cars double take in curiosity.

"I like them on. I like the noise they make."

"That's the gayest thing I've heard, dude." Kenny replied with a slight smile, crossing his arms as he gazed out the window at the passing mountainous scenery of South Park, Colorado, "You're so retarded."

It wasn't like Kenny hasn't driven with him before. In the two years that he's had his driver's license, he's given all of his friends innumerable rides and they've all seen his peculiar driving habits and dangerous antics – but unlike his other friends who eventually grew use to the sudden turns of the wheel, the pushing-speed-limit rate of acceleration, and the windshield wipers; Kenny never did and was determined to comment to his every move as if he'd just been freshly introduced, like this was his first time with Stan. So, in an act of retaliation to Kenny's refusing to grow use to his habits, Stan grew use to Kenny's questioning of his habits.

"Your haircut is really ugly." Stan said in insouciance, his eyes glued on the tail of the red sedan in front of him.

"Yours is too, buddy."

When Stan's alarm clock had gone off this morning at 6:30AM, he knew the right thing to do would be to get up, shower, dress, eat breakfast and then go to school. This had been the right thing to do for the past 12 years of his life and what he had done for just as long. The petulant and repetitive buzzing filled his dark bedroom and he had sat up, a mess of jet black hair appearing from underneath a pile of twisted and lumpy comforters. With his cheeks flushed from slumber, he had squinted and blinked for a moment at his screaming clock, as if daring it to force him from his soothing bed and proceed with his morning routine. He dared it to make its move and when it did nothing but buzz, he bitterly slammed his fist on its plastic head and it, having lost the battle, was quiet once again. The right thing to do, he thought as he relaxed at the sudden silence that surrounded him, would be to go to school. With a gentle ringing in his ears from the absence of sound, he had gathered an armful of his doughy blankets and poured them over him as he nestled back down on his downy pillows. The right thing to do just wasn't as alluring as this. He didn't get back up until noon.

Stan glanced at the digital clock on the dashboard, the humming of the engine filling his head. It was 5:00PM on a Thursday. He heard Kenny yawn beside him in the passenger seat and he, soon after, followed suit. This had been one of those warmer days.

What had woke him up at noon, had been his phone – the vibrating noise that came from his bedside table. With a shaky hand and his eyes still closed, he clawed blindly for it and when he finally managed to grab it, he flipped it open with his thumb, bringing it to his ear – the buttons were cold against his cheeks and he tried to sound as awake as possible as he muttered his hollow, "hey."

"Hey, it's me." Cartman, Stan thought. That fat bastard. "Where the fuck were you today?"

Still with his eyes closed, Stan rolled over as he stretched with one arm above his head, "home. I decided I wasn't in the mood for that bullshit Gov. class." He could hear the bustling of the Cafeteria in the background – it must be lunchtime – and Cartman's loud breathing into the mouth piece which happened when he was in motion – probably walking – during phone conversations.

"Pussy. You're a fucking pussy, you bitch." The teasing anger that Cartman exuded during his dialogue – he'd grown out of his genuine sadistic gesticulation as well as most of his baby fat; kept his violent sense of humor and malicious forms of interaction but changed into a more stocky body type. "The rest of us are here, you pussy, suffering like real men. If this were war, you'd be the pussy soldier who shot himself in his own pussy foot because he can't fucking handle the emotional turmoil because he's a pussy, Pussy."

"You're just pissed because you didn't come up with the genius plan of sleeping in and ditching like I did, Cartman." Stan sneered into the phone, raising his head a little and finally opening his eyes. The sun was pouring in through his windows. "But anyways, why'd you call?" Cartman never called to just talk – after all these years, Stan and everyone else, had come to realize this.

"Kenny's got something to say but he's got Down's syndrome and forgot his cell at home – hold on."

Stan moved his phone to the other ear.

"Dude?" Kenny's baritone voice was a change from Cartman's deep and raspy one.

"Yeah?"

"Oh dude." Kenny said loudly, trying to talk over the background noise – Stan heard Token say something he couldn't make out, quickly followed my Clyde's rambunctious and slightly overconfident laughter. "Listen, my mom's making me go get a haircut after school. Wanna give me a ride to the other side of town?" Butters squealed, _Shut up, you guys! That's not true! _"I really hate that Asian guy who's been cutting my hair – he doesn't know what he's doing." Kenny always cared too much about the way he looked for someone who constantly proclaimed that he didn't give a shit about superficial appearances.

Stan breathed loudly as he sat up, rubbing his eyes with one hand, "Whatever. Pick you at your house. Four o' clock."

Kenny rolled down the passenger side window, his new haircut blowing slightly in the breeze, and then rolled it back up. "This town sucks – everyone here sucks." The window came back down and then back up again. "I hate this stupid town so much." Again, the blonde boy pushed the switch and the window opened. "I can't wait to get my ass out of here." Then it closed.

"Stop that." Stan demanded, turning into the street to their neighborhood.

"Fine," Kenny breathed, taking his finger off of the window control switch and crossing his arms again.

But Stan wasn't talking about the window when he told Kenny to stop – he was talking about what Kenny had said: that hopeful thinking about leaving this town. It was pointless to think that it was possible. For one reason or another, no one seems to ever get out of this fucking mountain town. No one. He pulled to a stop at the red light. The driver in the car next to him stuck his head out of the car and shouted across the lane, "Hey man, you're windshield wipers are on!" Kenny rolled down his window half way – "I know, bro, that's what I fucking told him!" – and rolled then back up again.

Kenny had been wrong about the barbershop across town and it became blatantly obvious as soon as the woman took the first snip of the scissors – she had cut too much of Kenny's hair off. "That's too short," the blonde blurted, almost nervously. She pulled the scissors from his head and stood back for a second, examining his head as she tugged on one strand of her own thick hair. "Well, kid," she replied after a second of contemplation, "it's too late now. Don't worry though, it's gonna look great." Kenny had smiled meekly at her with bedroom brown eyes, as if he hadn't been quiet convinced by her unwavering and equally 'powerful' argument but said nothing else, momentarily submissive with the polka dotted drape around him.

Stan had sat in the neighboring barber chair, swiveling it back and forth rhythmically to the dim alternative rock music being played as he intently watched the Hispanic woman pull and snip, pull and snip, pull and snip – the smell of hair products and cheap cologne was starting to give him a headache. "Do you want a haircut too?" Stan tore his eyes away from Kenny and met with a man – late twenties in age and dressed in an expensive looking satin dress shirt – with a pair of trimmers in his hand and a decorous smile.

"Oh," Stan started, "oh, no, thanks. I'm just with him." He motioned towards Kenny who had turned his head suddenly at the voice of the man addressing Stan; having startling the woman and ruined the positioning of whatever snip she was prepared to make, she pulled his head back into place with a greater vigor than considered necessary.

"Yes he does," Kenny intervened with a mischievous grin, cooperative with the woman as she pulled at his bangs, "he does. Do it."

Stan shook his head but after a second of thought and a tangential glance at the mirror, noticing that his hair was a little shaggy, he surprised himself and obliged quietly. The man had then immediately wrapped him a matching polka dotted drape as Kenny and grabbed a spray bottle – which still had half the Windex label on it - and drenched the boy's thick black hair with four quick sprays of cold water. "How short?" he asked, scratching his beard and putting down the bottle as he picked up a pair of scissors and a comb.

"Really short!" Kenny piped in. "For the ladies!"

Not in the mood for any type of protest, Stan shrugged, staring at himself in the mirror, instantly noticing all of his imperfections: his drying skin, his chapped lips, the bags underneath his blue eyes. The man, swiftly and without prior warning, took the first snip and Stan held his breath.

He and Kenny made eye contact in the mirror.

The sun was belligerent and Stan reached above his head and pulled down the block shade, swerving slightly with only one hand on the steering wheel – unlike most boys his age, he wasn't ashamed to admit that he was a reckless driver. Granted, he was a great driver given the right mood, but the rest of the time, the youth just didn't have the heart care about the threat of a fatal accident on the road. In vexation, Kenny peered over at him above his sunglasses, said nothing, and then turned back to the side window. Without much concern to what was on the bottom of his dirty converse, Kenny propped his feet on the dashboard.

"Fuck, man. You totally act just like your dad," Stan casually observed, turning his eyes from the road to Kenny's shoes on his family's new car.

"And fuck, man, you totally sound just like my mom." Kenny casually replied. "Let's kiss."

Stan was finished first because he, unlike Kenny who commanded and complained through the entire ordeal, took whatever the stylist gave him. It looked awkward, Stan thought, studying his new haircut in the mirror as the man pulled the drape off of him. His bangs, which use to reach his eyes, were now above his forehead in length; the hair that covered his ears and the back of his neck had been completely removed; it must have been all an inch long now and pushed in trendy positions by a trendy hair wax that smelled of some artificial fruit. He felt a breeze from the open door on the back of his neck – this was new to him. Tugging on his blue tee-shirt, trying to remove what hair he could that the drape hadn't caught, he glanced over at Kenny who was now leaning extremely close to the mirror with a hand tugging at various strands of his blonde locks. Tapered, fringed and naturally light in spite of the reasonable length, it didn't look half bad – Stan sure as hell wouldn't have minded it. But Kenny had shown an expression of disgust and mouthed the words "too short."

It really wasn't.

"Tah-dah!," Stan exuded in mock drama as he pulled the SUV to a stop near the curb of the rundown house, "The McCormick Residence!"

"Man, our haircut adventure has come to a close. What a damn _shame_, Mr. Marsh." Kenny replied opening the car door and hopping out. He stood with the door open, the gentle dinging of the car's notification system coming as a result of it, and stretched viciously with his arms above his head before tugging at the waist of his jeans. With a certain swagger, he turned to face Stan and grinned, "Hey I'm free for something later tonight – maybe after dinner – if you wanna hang." In all the years that Stan's known him, Kenny was always the one who was legitimately genuine in asking for company, and the one who was always free any time of the day or night.

"I got hockey practice tonight. How about afterwards?" – He glanced at the clock. 5:15PM. Hockey at 7:30PM – "Be by your house at nine-ish?"

"Sure." Kenny slammed the door closed and stepped back as Stan pulled the car away from the curb and made an elegant U-turn. "Later, man!" Stan called in a response to Kenny's stiff wave as he walked up the drive way.

"We look like fags" Kenny said with a hint of defeat as they walked towards Stan's SUV, parked on the other side of the parking lot. "Well, in reality, you've always looked like a fag but you just look faggier than usual with that haircut." Stan instinctively ran his fingers through his hair, almost startled by the fact that most of it what wasn't there anymore. The blonde hadn't stopped tugging at his ever since the woman had made the last cut.

"This is your fault." Stan laughed, shoving his friend by the shoulder who pushed back with that usual beam, "Until it grows back, we're not friends anymore."

"That's fine with me," Kenny replied, running up to the silver automobile and tugging impatiently like child at the door handle; Stan pushed the unlock button on his keys and Kenny instantaneously situated himself on the passenger side. Stan climbed in, started the engine and, being a creature of habit, flipped on the windshield wipers.

Once he was at the stoplight, waiting to pull out of the parking lot, he caught sight of a frail boy who must have been, at most, ten years old, standing edgily next to his plump mother. By the way that he was feverously pushing the crosswalk button, it was evident that they were preparing to cross the street into the shopping center he and Kenny had just come from. Placed on the boy were a tender smile and a green hat which only partially covered a head of curly red hair. Stan could, rapidly and unexplainably, feel his heart beat against his chest. Quickly, he turned to Kenny as if Kenny could provide for an answer to this rush of adrenaline he was feeling, only to see that the blonde was staring just as absorbedly at the boy and his mother. Stan turned back to the mother and son and inhaled heavily. The sight of the child brought a sudden wave of nostalgia and sense of acquaintance that he couldn't identify. He squinted, leaning forward slightly, at him from across the street.

The light turned green.

Then, feeling as if he'd just managed to pull himself above the deafening water for the first breath of air he'd had in a years, he abruptly remembered.

_Kyle. _

He slammed his foot on the gas pedal and shot into the street.

"Marsh!, You son of a bitch! Pay attention!" Kenny snarled.

What had he been thinking about? Suddenly, he couldn't remember.

Stan stared at his computer screen, the small type bar on the blank word document blinking back at him as he waited extremely patiently for the words to start flowing out of him and onto his report. Frankly, he had no idea what happened in France during the 1900's nor did he feel like he cared in the least bit. Exhaling deeply and running his hands through his short hair, he leaned back in his chair and gazed impassively at the ceiling, ignoring the pile of homework and class work he gained from skipping school. Only weeks to high school graduation, he couldn't find the incentive or the need to study any longer – and his parents might have finally understood: his mother had said nothing to him when he'd come down the stairs at noon in his boxers when he should have been in class. Now, at the early evening and feeling himself suspended between a clashing notion of repose and this unexplained sensation of strife, the boy lightly closed his eyes and absorbed his surroundings.

His room, which had been the same since he was twelve – the wooden bookshelves, the twin sized bed, the various posters – smelled of sordid sports equipment, something his mother currently complains about; now that his sister had moved in with her latest boyfriend, the room across the hall from him lacked its usual blasting of mainstream music and loud phone conversations. The hallway was silent but carried sounds from the ceremonious activity downstairs: his mother cooking in the kitchen which came with the slight aroma of beef stroganoff; his father on the couch, watching the news report on a low volume. With the window open, he could feel the light weather of the summer night, docile sounds of the world entering his ears – a lone cricket, an owl, a coming car, the glow of headlights through his eyelids

From downstairs, he heard his mom call his name, followed by the word 'dinner.' He opened his eyes and stood up.

"Can I skip hockey and hang out with Kenny tonight?" Stan offhandedly stated while tapping his fork on the top of his salad. Thus far, the dinner conversation had been on current events, some kidnapped boy, some murdered mother, some dangers of a new economic depression, and the usual threat of the world's impending end due to its insensitive inhabitants. He watched his dad turn from his mom and lay eyes on him the moment what he'd said processed. "Why?" The usual fatherly voice. Stan shrugged, picking up a tomato slice and bringing it to his mouth. "No, Stan. You've already decided to skip school without permission; you're not skipping hockey practice. You can hang out with Kenny afterwards." Stan said nothing else and listened to his parents talk with the television on in the living room, droning in and out between the two – his mother's latest information about their neighbors, his father's loose screw in hinge of their bathroom cabinet; the news broadcasts' weather report for tomorrow, a commercial for home insurance.

"Your haircut looks great, Sweetie." His mom said with her smile as she piled more salad on his plate. "It doesn't cover your face now and it's –"

"- can I be excused?" Stan said, interrupting his mom, "if I have to go to hockey, I wanna get there early so I can make some shots by myself."

Randy smiled brightly at his son, with one giant hand patting him on the back, "there's the spirit, Stanley! Go ahead. Call if you need anything."

Stan nodded and left the table, made a trip to his room to grab his sports bag and a light sports jacket and then made his way down stairs again. At the door, he heard his mom call, "that better not have been a lie to go over to the McCormick's, sweetie!" Stan rolled his eyes; his father was oblivious to his tricks but his mom read him like a book. He stepped outside and instantly dialed Kenny's number on his cell phone as he threw his sports bag into the bushes.

Kenny answered with the usual, "Dude."

"Change of plans. Be there in fifteen."

Driving would have taken less than five minutes – but he, on a whim, decided to walk.

As he closed the front door, he didn't hear his father say, "Oh guess what? I saw Ike Broflovski today. I told him that Stan wanted to know how his brother was doing."

The evening air still had the hint of the approaching heat wave of summer and he took a deep breath, zipping his jacket to his chin. With his hands in his jean pockets, he started to walk listening to the sound of his sneakers against the concrete. He blinked into the street in front of him, the dim orange lights from the porches of his neighbors filling the darkness around him. The 7 o' clock moon in all its grandeur hung dangerously before him accompanied by the plethora of faint blinking stars. Incessant in their placement, Stan didn't notice them – similar to how he'd grown used to the mountains around him.

He walked with his eyes placed on the ground. It never felt as long as it really was walking to Kenny's house – he's done it so many times, it seemed to have gotten closer to his house after all these years. With the turn of a corner after a long wide street, was the residence he sought. The rundown suburban was gaily lit like most of the houses in this part of town. The McCormick's truck was parked haphazardly at an awkward angle (two wheels on the lawn and two weeks on the driveway) as if Kenny's father had driven it home while intoxicated. While he crossed the street, he saw Kenny lying on the grass with the hoodie of his sweatshirt covering his feathery locks. He didn't have any shoes on. As if in some sort of dream, the boy stared vacantly at the sky and made no movement when Stan stepped foot on the dying grass. Without muttering any sort of greeting, the Marsh boy, with his hands in his pockets and an expression of inquisition, stood over his friend. Kenny blinked out of his reverie and flashed that trademark smile.

"Cartman's inside getting something to drink."

So Cartman's here. A dog barked in the distance and Mrs. McCormick's muffled voice, engaged in a conversation with her husband, echoed through the open window of the den. The lavenders that lined the house were slightly shriveled. It's always been the three of them, just sprawled about uselessly and lethargically during the warm evenings – in jeans and socks. Stan promptly laid himself down to Kenny's right. The grass was warm against his back and the exposed skin of his neck and palms.

Stan's eyes scanned the black sky with the speckles of stars and the moon that still hung low in the scope. The vast open space had him, incongruously, feeling smothered. In the back of his head, he wondered how long it would take his parents to see his sports bag in the bushes and that the SUV was still in the garage; he anticipated the vibrating from the cell phone in his back pocket.

"Hey…dude," Kenny said, tugging at the blades of grass with his hands, not turning away from the sky. "Did you see that kid from today? Across the street from the shitty barbershop – the one that was with his mom?"

The vision of the boy entered his head as he heard the front door open and the heavy footsteps of Cartman from above his head. Then the voice he'd grown to recognize without thought, "Oh look, it's a gay orgy on the lawn." Stan turned his head slightly to see the heavy set boy sit down with his legs crossed next to Kenny – a glass of water in his large hand. He wore a tee-shirt which was out of context with the current temperature; granted it was warm but not warm enough for the short sleeves to be a good choice in clothing. Subtle goose bumps lined Cartman's skin. He took a sip of water and remained silent, with his eyes down the block. So this was what over a decade of friendship has allowed them to gain – a lazy evening where nothing needed to be said in the contented stillness. Stan turned his head back to the sky.

"Yeah, I saw that kid," he muttered between breaths, finally replying Kenny's question. The vivid red hair underneath that hat; thin and bright skinned. The impatient pushing of the crosswalk button. That boy brought a plummeting sensation to his stomach.

"Who did he remind you of?"

Cartman cleared his throat. Kenny pulled at the stings of his hoodie. A breeze pushed the blades of grass to kneel. Stan remained motionless in thought.

"No one," Stan found himself saying. "It was just some kid."


	4. Kyle: Photograph

**Summery:** It's been four years since Kyle's set foot in South Park and his return at age eighteen reminds him of how things use to be and what life use to be like; now he's finally able to make sense of the feelings he had in youth. StanxKyle, different POVs

**AN: **I haven't updated this in two years and boy do I have a lot of things that I want to say. School's out and with summer vacation looming, I've been playing with the idea of finishing up a few of the stories that I've left hanging – this angsty little South Park fanfic being one of them. Being away from this story for two years has given me a lot of new perspective on the three chapters I've got up. I've realized some issues both in the writing and in the plot. ALLOW ME TO ADDRESS THEM, YES?

The writing as a whole was…pretty awful. I like to think that I've improved at least a little bit so hopefully, your eyes/brain don't die reading this new chapter

I really made it sound like Stan just went and forgot about Kyle in the course of four years. My intention was that he had suppressed the memory of Kyle (unintentionally or intentionally?). This aspect I didn't really make very clear – even I was confused about this ^^;;

These chapters are relatively short, and they're all formatted in a slightly different way. I wanted them to be like little snapshots; together they form a more (hopefully) fluid plot.

All other little details that might be off…please just ignore them, lovelies 3 I'll do my best to avoid them in the future!

P.S. Kenny McCormick POV is next.

**Warnings: **Initial OOC, swearing, slash pairing (STYLE), various POVs

* * *

**Kyle:**

The first thing he did was sit stupidly on the bed for a good minute.

It was only at the sound of the knock did he tear his gaze away from the empty wall. Before he could give any form of a reply, his father was struggling through the doorway with his bulky piece of luggage. "Been a while since you've been in here, Kyle," he declared, catching his breath through a large grin. "Swear we didn't move a thing. Your mom came in to dust once in a while, but everything's just how you left it." The man straightened himself out, turning over the room with his eyes. Kyle stood to take the luggage from his father's grasp before muttering, "Thanks. Really, dad. Thanks."

"We've all missed you, Bud. Glad you're home." There was such elation in his voice, an elation that Kyle couldn't muster in himself.

"Okay."

"I'll let you get settled. You know, unpack your things. Get use to the old place."

"Okay."

"Dinner's in a half an hour. Man, it's good to have you home." His dad turned his heels and closed the door behind him. Alone, with only silence for company, Kyle listened to his old memories and emotions dripped like toxins from the walls and the furniture.

The second thing he did was turn over all of the picture frames in the room.

* * *

"Look at you, Kyle!" His mother practically yelled at him over the top of her wineglass. "Look at how you've grown. I barely recognize you. I can't believe you've cut off so much of your hair, though." He smiled meekly up at her, pushing his food around the plate with his fork and placing a hand on his head where his mop of curly read hair used to be. He turned his eyes to gaze around the dining room, perplexed by how everything seemed so strange and so familiar at the same time.

"Tell us all about what you were up too out there. We want to hear all about it. Last we heard, you took that extra art class…but that was last semester."

"We should go out as a family tomorrow night, Gerald. Maybe you'll run into someone you know, Kyle."

"I'm a little tired," he replied, taking a small sip of the orange juice, as he gorged in the scents of his mother's cooking. He loved it; he was surprised he had gone so long without thinking about it, especially after four years of cafeteria food.

"Well, you should give your old friends a call. I bet they would love to hear from you," his father said, offhandedly.

Kyle froze for a second, with his fork hanging from his mouth, blinking at the table cloth. After he gave a slight shrug, his parents happily moved onto another topic. He silently and somberly went on eating as he did his best to ignore the frequent and wary stares Ike threw him.

* * *

He declined his parents' invitations to leave the house, and lied about already having done so while they were at work.

They arrived home every day to find him sitting on the couch, rumpled and quiet, and veiled his obvious tribulations with their exuberance. It seemed that the happier they were, the less thrilled he was to be around them. By his third day, he moved from the couch to his room, where he spent most of the day rearranging the furniture and shoving his old things into the dark corners of the closet. Truthfully, the moment he set foot out of the plane, he felt like running back. It struck him that he had no idea what to expect and now that he had seen it, he had no idea how to react to being in a home that felt almost like a strangers, with parents he hardly felt close to. Swimming in a universe filled with trillions of words of every language, he had no idea that he would say to anyone. Underneath this layer of excitement, anxiety, and dread, there was something that felt like fear.

In the mornings, he awoke to the sound of Ike's alarm, and he would listen to his brother stumble around the house, getting ready for school. When they bid him good morning, he would give a nod back as an automatic response, not really registering anything outside of his body as he tried to make sense of what was inside of it. It seemed like they were all in a hurry in the mornings, but he moved light years slower than everyone else.

After a week, he still couldn't look out the window out at the mountainous backdrop of his hometown. He couldn't stand overhearing his mother from the house as she talked happily with the neighbors.

"Where is he? Haven't seen him about at all!"

"I think he might be coming down with something. He's awfully quiet sometimes."

"Tell him we said hi, Sheila."

He crawled into bed as early as he could, trying to clear his head. Somehow, he felt like even the air changed; he felt that something inside him was changing. He could smell it in the air: his childhood was there, in bits and pieces. It was colder that he had remembered, despite the summer. While it was easier for him to breathe, it was harder for him to take it all in. He'd hold a mouthful of air, trying to recall every detail of South Park while simultaneously trying to ignore all the details of everyone he one knew. Was the town different or was he?

When he exhaled, he asked himself why exactly he was so terrified, why exactly he felt so strange and uneasy.

In the eerily quiet nights, he struggled to sleep. Between the muffled sound of Ike's voice in the next room, and hypnotically stealing glances at his wristwatch, he would drift off into sleep with the hope that he would wake up in the past where everything felt right.

* * *

"You haven't left the house in four days. That's pretty pathetic."

Kyle looked up from his laptop, closed it and swiveled around in his chair to see Ike leaning on the doorframe with a slight frown and dark, piercing eyes.

"Yes I have," he replied, looking down at his lap. He swallowed his words like a dry pill.

"Don't lie to me, Kyle. I'm not an idiot like mom and dad." Ike crossed his arms. The brothers stared silently at each other for what seemed like a lifetime. Finally, as Kyle was about to open his mouth to say something – _anything _– to fill the silence, Ike stepped further into the room and closed the door behind him. "I know why you've been moping around. You're practically afraid to go out and see people," he shot at his older brother. They both paused to make sure they could still hear their parents comfortably oblivious downstairs. Kyle leaned back in his chair and defiantly muttered, "I haven't been _moping_ around. I just don't want to talk to people or whatever."

Ike leaned against the door. "You feel guilty."

"For _what_?"

"—For leaving and then pretty much abandoning mom and dad. Abandoning me. _Everyone_." Ike paused, taking several deep breathes, before saying, with a rise in his voice, "you practically disappeared."

Feeling trapped by the blatant accusations, Kyle stood up from his chair and made a step towards Ike, appalled that they were nearly the same height. His baby brother's face, even at thirteen, seemed decades older than his own – or maybe it was just seemed decades older than how he remembered it. He couldn't wrap his head around what he'd missed all these years.

"I didn't _abandon_ anything. It was mom and dad who _forced_ me to leave, remember?" Kyle snapped back, feeling irritated by Ike's ability to see right through him and place this puzzle together when Kyle himself couldn't even find the pieces.

"Yeah, but they didn't _force_ you to leave without saying goodbye!"

Kyle stumbled, trying to find something to say but feeling too exhausted to defend himself. "Ike," he muttered, putting his hands up in defense, buying time. "Hold on." He couldn't stand looking at Ike's face now that it was smeared with such loathing.

"And they didn't _force_ you to not keep in touch. That was you, Kyle!"

"Ike, it was hard for me, being so far — "

But before he could finish, Ike threw open the door, stormed out, and slammed it back closed. Kyle stood motionless, dumbfounded and slightly dizzy. He collapsed onto his bed, defeated and overwhelmed, with his hands on his head. He hated himself, clenching his teeth, trying to steady his breathing. His heart was pounding in his ears.

A minute later, the door swung open, Ike stormed back in and shoved a glossy but crumpled pamphlet into Kyle's hands.

"Bus 27," he deadpanned, folding his arms again, keeping his eyes everywhere but his brother.

"_Sorry_? What is this? A bus schedule?" Kyle sat up, unfolding the pamphlet, raising his eyebrows at its contents. "What? You want me to take the bus back to –"

"Bus 27 will take you directly to the gym."

"What?" Kyle stared, giving Ike a look of disbelief, crumpling the pamphlet in his hands, "What does that have _anything_ to do with—"

"Two and a half years ago, they built an ice rink in the basement of the gym." The thirteen year old's voice was calm but forced and controlled.

"Ike, just _listen_ for a second—"

"The Bruins just started the summer season," Ike said as he walked to Kyle's bedside table and picked up the picture frame that was lying face down on the mahogany. "Practice goes from seven-thirty to ten. It's nine-thirty now."

"How could you think that I _abandoned_—"

Ike forcefully slammed the frame down onto the table – picture up – before shooting Kyle a look of such disbelief.

The boy leaned close to his baffled brother and jabbed a finger at the photograph.

"_Stan Marsh_ is the captain of the Bruins."

Ike stomped to the door, turned back around and muttered, "...I can't stand your fucking misery anymore."


	5. Kenny: Chance

**Summery:** It's been four years since Kyle's set foot in South Park and his return at age eighteen reminds him of how things use to be and what life use to be like; now he's finally able to make sense of the feelings he had in youth. StanxKyle, different POVs

**AN: **This chapter is a little different from the others formatting wise! I really wanted to do Kenny's bit with some first person (because Kenny just has a lot of boyish charisma in my mind) and this idea of a journal entry interweaved throughout the narration just stuck with me – even after two years.

**Warnings: **Initial OOC, swearing, slash pairing (STYLE), various POVs

* * *

**Kenny:**

_June 2, Wednesday, 11:00PM_

_Let the record reflect that I don't believe in giving second chances. You might as well give a conservative senator a hooker's phone number. Seriously. Look me in the eye and tell me that shit isn't dangerous. But I can tell you this right now: Stan can stab me square in the face, but if I came back to life and he asked me to hand him the knife, I would totally do it. It's fucking DANGEROUS for my health._

_(I just jacked four beers from dad's cabinet. I guess I'm a little drunk.)_

Kenny was slumped in the seat with his arms crossed on his stomach, staring at the clock on the wall, rooting wordlessly for the first hand to round the seven o'clock corner. Group therapy with the school psychiatrist was not something that particularly interested him; all the discussion about the problems of self-absorbed moody teenagers really had him crawling up the wall. And if he could ever literally crawl up those bland white walls, he swore he would hang himself from the ceiling fan just to end the misery…which would be ironic. Instead, he was sliding further down his seat by the moment out of pure contempt for time's slow passage and for the fact that his mother made it a requirement for him to show up to these things once a week. In yesterday's crumpled hoody and torn jeans, he ripped his eyes from the clock and glanced over to his left at Stan who Kenny was sure was equally bored but much better at hiding it. Stan had offered to keep him company today before hockey practice started and Kenny made a silent vow to sacrifice a lamb in Stan's honor. Without his friend there to quietly and entertainingly mock the other attendees, this hour would have been toeing the line of torturous.

"What about you, Mr. McCormick?" the doctor said, snapping Kenny from his coma. "You too, Mr. Marsh. What would you change if you could change one thing about you?"

Kenny pulled his hood over his head. He straightened himself up in the seat, wiping the corner of his mouth before letting his head fall limply to one side.

"I'd be…taller," Kenny replied, looking complacently at the other kids around the room.

"Yeah me too. I'd be taller," Stan said, turning and giving Kenny a high-five. With their hands still in the air, the psychiatrist asked, "why?"

The two boys gave each other playful looks.

"So we can have higher high-fives," Kenny said and Stan nodded enthusiastically.

He stared at them disdainfully before scribbling some notes into his legal bad. He looked up again just as Stan had stopped laughing and said, rather condescendingly, "Your eyes are bloodshot, Mr. McCormick. Are you under the influence of drugs?"

"No," Kenny said, slightly offended.

"He was up late," Stan offered.

"How late?"

"Really late. Couldn't sleep. We've _already_ talked about my daddy issues, remember? Late night freak out sessions are kind of my dad's forte."

"_Alcoholism_ is kind of his forte," Cartman threw in.

_Cartman, on the otherhand…well, he's Cartman. He's the type of guy that thinks its badass to tattoo his penis with a picture of a vagina…_

Cartman wasn't there voluntarily for his friend's sake. Being too lazy to walk and too prejudiced to take public transportation, he didn't have any other way to get home apart from the rusty old truck Kenny borrowed from his parents for the evening. So he tagged along with his two friends but spent most of the time staring at his battered cell phone screen.

"Well, it looks like we're out of time," the psychiatrist said, glancing at his wrist watch, and Kenny instantly let out a sign of relief. "The group session is now over, but don't forget that you're always welcome to stay afterwards if you need to speak to me privately about anything."

As everyone gathered their stuff, Cartman made a run for the door.

"Remember to write in the journal I handed out, Mr. McCormick. Do it when you get home so the day is still fresh in your mind. I'm tired of hearing your excuses," the psychiatrist said, eyeing Kenny who responded with a forced smile. Just as he had picked up his tattered backpack and was about to stand up, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up at the strange woman – probably a parent – offering a face of tearful sympathy.

"I know how hard that can be. My mother was an alcoholic. If you need anything…anything at all…feel free to contact me," she said to him, talking to him in the same voice one would talk to a child, as she handed him a piece of paper with a phone number. Kenny nodded awkwardly, using the same forced smile, and rolled his eyes dramatically when she turned her heels and marched out of the room with the rest. Stan rose from his seat and turned to Kenny. "Who was that?"

Kenny stood up, threw the bag over a shoulder and breathed, "I have no idea. It's funny how after you vomit once from taking one too many sleeping pills people start treating you like you're one step away from blowing your brains out – especially if you know an alcoholic."

…_I've said it before and I'll say it again: I DID NOT TRY TO OFF MYSELF. _

_Yeah, okay, it's crossed my mind once or twice but I'm sure it's crossed everyone's minds once or twice at some point or another. I mean, it's hard not to think about suicide when you're stuck with three of the most monotonous teachers in South Park High. _

_I'm being serious. I just think in the middle of class: If I swallowed my copy of the history textbook, 9 out of 10 doctors say I would probably choke to death._

_I would never actually do it. People just look at me and where I come from and they just assume that because I have so much against me, I would just want to end it. But no, they're wrong. They're all wrong._

_Think about it. If I killed myself, all Stan would have left would be Cartman and Cartman's future vagina tattoo. And what about my little sister? My mom? I wouldn't do that to my friends or my family. _

_Cross my heart._

_Hope to die (but not really)._

_Stick a needle in my eye (as long as it doesn't penetrate to my brain and kill me)…_

"Fuck. What is she _doing_ out so late?" Kenny muttered, pulling his father's truck over to the side of the street as Stan rolled down the passenger side window. The girl continued to walk proudly onwards in the cool summer air wearing nothing but a lumpy cardigan and a ballet skirt.

"Karen, what are you doing out here? Mom wants you in by six on school nights," Kenny leaned over and called to his younger sister from the open passenger window. She stopped briefly from walking alone down the sidewalk, clutching several books in her arms, but never turned to look at the truck.

"The eighth grade play. Not that you would know anything about that," she scoffed.

…_My new year's resolution was to be more involved in my little sister's life. _

_Kevin was never there for me so I made a promise to be there for Karen. But the more I get to know her, the more I've realized that it might not be a good idea. She's light years a better person than me. I guess I'm afraid I might be a bad influence._

_I'm just this punk kid who should really be voted know? I'm Mr. Sorry-I-Drank-The-Last-Soda-But-There's-Some-Old-Milk-Left-I'm-An-Asshole._

_But she's…not like the rest of us McCormicks. She's smart and beautiful and she has a taste for the finer things in life. Like tea and Scrabble or some shit like that…_

"I'm walking to my friend's house. She lives right down this street. We're going to practice our lines," Karen explained, keeping her eyes straight ahead, oddly fearless for a young girl in the darkness of the early evening, "and I _already_ talked to Mom about it."

"Mom said you could walk by yourself?" Kenny blurted, slightly irritated. Karen rolled her eyes and started to walk again. Kenny drove slowly alongside of her. "Why didn't she call me? I could have driven you."

"You were _busy_," the girl said, finally turning to look her brother through the open window. "Hi Eric," she acknowledged blankly to which Cartman, from the backseat, nodded at her with equal blankness. She turned to the passenger seat. "Hi _Stan_," she said in a different, sing-song voice, waving at him and biting down on her lower lip.

Stan grinned and Kenny glared at her. "Karen. Can you please not make awkward and sexually charged advances towards my friends?"

"Hi Karen. Hope the play is going well. Nice skirt by the way," Stan replied sweetly, ignoring Kenny, who turned to him, eyeing him incredulously for a second before saying, "and _you_, do not encourage her." The black-haired boy turned to his friend and gave a crooked smile, raising his eyebrows good-naturedly until he heard the girl shuffle over closer to the slow moving truck and rap the door with her knuckles.

"So Stan. I've got news for you. I overheard someone's mom talking to some other person's mom after school today and you'll _never_ guess who is back," Karen said excitedly, reaching up and fixing the barrettes in her hair.

Worried now that Karen was walking so close to the truck, Kenny stepped on the breaks, but she continued walking. He stepped on the gas to catch up with her. The truck stalled. "Clutch," Stan said automatically to which Kenny swore under his breath, clearly new at driving stick, "…and sorry Karen, I didn't catch the end of that."

"Guess who came back," she repeated, louder this time to make sure was heard over the rumbling of the engine.

…_Guess who came back. I didn't think she really meant anything by it. _

_My ignorance constantly fucks my life…_

"You are barred from talking to Stan for the rest of your life," Kenny interrupted before Stan could process what she had said, "If you don't need a ride, I have to get Stan to the gym in less than ten minutes."

"You're a jerk Kenneth," she said.

…_She always calls me Kenneth when she's genuinely pissed…_

"Walk _faster_," Kenny yelled at her before speeding off with a burst of exhaust from the tailpipe.

"Don't be such a little bitch to your sister," Cartman muttered from the back, still flipping through his phone, completely detached from the rest of the encounter.

"Actually, Stan, you are also barred from talking to my sister for the rest of your life," Kenny corrected, throwing Stan a sideways frown which Stan, busy manually rolling up the window, didn't see. Kenny slowed down significantly, staring intently at his sister from the rearview mirror, watching her until she was safely on the doorstep of her friend's residence. When he was certain that she was alright, he turned his attention to the street.

"I have to agree with Cartman," Stan said with slight sternness.

Kenny sought eye contact with his friend, putting on a distressed face, "You don't even understand Stan. I was bored yesterday so I took a little glance through her diary and I have read things she wrote about you…things that I _cannot_ unread." Kenny said emotionally, pretending to hurl, with a tensed hand raised dramatically over his head.

…_Out of the one hundred something pages of her diary, only three or four entries don't mention dad (even in the slightest way). I can deal with dad. He's just a big asshole. I'd kick his ass if I could. But he's, you know, a fucking obese whale compared to me. It's not even a story of David and Goliath. It's more like the story of retarded David and Teenage-Mutant-Ninja-Turtle-'Roided up-Goliath. _

_But I'd totally do it if I had, like, the strength of a bear…that had the strength of two bears._

_ Goal: I'll get a job once high school's over. Move into my own place and Karen can come live with me._

_ I'm not like the world's greatest person. I'm not Jesus Christ._

_ BUT. I can turn water into Kool Aid…_

"You're attracting sharks like blood in the water," Kenny stated, eyeing all the girls scattered around the ice rink, amorously watching Stan who was sitting casually on the player's bench as he changed into the Bruin's uniform. Stan didn't reply, tying the laces on his skates.

"I should've tried out for the team. I really should've," Kenny mourned, waving to a few of the girls. He sat on the ledge, with his feet dangling over the ice, sipping on a water bottle. Turning around to look over at his friend, the blonde sneered, "I know I suck but you would have put me on the team if I cried, right? _Riiighhttt?_" Kenny, holding Stan's hockey stick, used it to jab Stan on the side of the head. Stan grabbed the end of it and shoved it back, sending Kenny laughing and stumbling over the ledge and onto the ice in sneakers.

By the time that the boy managed to get himself on dry land, Stan had already joined the rest of the teaming running offensive drills.

Joining a bored and restless Cartman on the player's bench, Kenny watched the team eagerly, cheering for Stan with panache, just to spite the girls who stopped their catcalls and started to whisper and giggle quietly to their friends.

_…People come to watch the practices all the time. The Bruins are a biggest deal involving local sports during the summer time, so it's not unusual for a bunch of random ass people to show up. They're mostly overly aggressive girls, girls who, if they'd been born male, would have totally turned out to be rapists. Like this one time, I was standing around outside of the gym wearing Stan's jersey (I was only wearing it because Craig was an asshole and dumped grape soda on my shirt and I wasn't going to walk around shirtless like a douche. Plus, it's South Park, dude. I'm talking about fucking ice age weather all the time) and I felt like my safety was compromised. I mean there were cougars jumping out of bushes and appearing out of other cougar's butts. They would come up to me and twitch their tail in my face._

_ I was all like I'M SORRY WHY ARE YOU RUBBING UP AGAINST ME?I mean, don't get me wrong, I like free boobage but what I don't get is why Stan just blatantly ignores it. He's basically the most devoted boyfriend in the world. I guess being Ms. Feminist tough-ass -puta Wendy Testaburger's boyfriend isn't exactly therapeutic for the libido. She has like a metal chastity belt strapped to his crotch. Not literally of course. But Wendy's fists metaphorically represent a metal chastity belt._

_ Fuck that._

_ Anyways. I'm completely off topic._

_The point is, we never pay attention to the stands (unless it's Randy making a total ass out of himself). _

_You can't blame any of us for not noticing earlier or noticing right away. What? Are we suppose to just, like, stare at the stands and wait for something miraculous to appear like those fucking scientists staring at test tubes, waiting for a moldy cracker to turn into a rabbit-rhino baby…or whatever…_

Kenny leaned over the ledge, with his hand stretched over the ice as the team skated their final lap, something they did at the end of every practice. They high-fived him as they blazed past. Stan playfully prodded Kenny's shoulder with the butt of his stick before skating backwards to watch with a smirk as Kenny fell over on Cartman. Both of the boys threw Stan the middle finger, who returned it through his glove.

The team cleared the ice, gathering their bags and equipment slowly but surely. By ten after ten, Stan was still in his uniform but completely stripped of all of his pads, skating circles on the ice, casually flicking the puck into the empty goal. A few people remained on the stands and Cartman complained endlessly to pack up and go home. The rink was silent for the most part, slightly eerie now that it wasn't filled with the rowdy shouting and laughing from the team. Their every movement boomed loudly and echoed to every corner of the high-ceilinged baseball. Kenny was at the deserted counter of the rentals box in the back, shimmying the lock for a pair of skates so he could join Stan. This was a common act – and they were always sure to return the skates after he was done.

"Can we please get our asses out of here?" Cartman moaned, slumped on the player's bench. "It's so late. Why the fuck are we still here?"

"Walk home, fatass," Stan called to Cartman from the other side of the ice, as he shot the puck square into the center of the net.

"I hate coming to your gay ass practices and yet, somehow, I always end up at this place."

"Don't deny it Cartman, you love all the sweaty dudes," Kenny sneered as he plopped down next to Cartman with a pair of skates. Cartman huffed loudly, slumping further down. Kenny threw his old converse sneakers off his feet and slipped into the skates before awkwardly maneuvering to the edge of the ice with one of Stan's spare sticks. As Cartman whined like a brat, the two passed the puck back and forth, taking turns making easy goals.

…_You know what I hate the most about life? I hate that things change so quickly. _

_It's like Life, the biggest douche in the world, gets off from pulling the rug right out from underneath your feet…_

Kenny grabbed on to the back of Stan's jersey, trying to climb onto his back for a piggy back ride. Stan, struggling to hold his balance on the ice, quickly turned around, tripping Kenny with his stick. Kenny, struggling to breathe through his laughter, ended up sprawled with his back on the ice, staring up at the dusty ceilings where bright lights dangled above them. When he struggled to get back onto his feet, his eyes landed on a boy, sitting at the top corner of the stands, staring down at the ice. He was just sitting there alone, with his elbows resting on his knees, his head cocked to one side. Kenny heard the slick grinding of Stan's blades skating carelessly in the opposite direction, throwing affectionate insults, but the blonde didn't react. The boy on the stands stood up as soon as he noticed Kenny watching him. Kenny felt his heart in his throat. His stomach turned and his head spun. Kenny dropped his stick with a boom on the hard ice.

…_I'm not an idiot. I recognized him right away. The way he stands. The way he moves. How, when he feels awkward, he doesn't know what to do with his arms._

_So what? After four years of being on the other side, he just randomly appears out of nowhere? I mean, how long was he sitting there? Without saying anything? Without even trying to make himself noticed?_

_That second when I was standing on the ice, watching him stand up, it was like everything flooded back. All the memories. Our entire lives._

_I kept thinking about school, that one time in eighth grade when we drew paper slips for speaking parts in Romeo and Juliet. I got Juliet and he switched with me even though he had to deal with wearing that weird cherry cloth dress. And I kept thinking about how he was so dignified when he read his lines even though Clyde and Cartman and all those other assholes kept on ripping on him. _

_I kept on thinking about that one time when he let me stay in his house when my mom took Karen and left me with my dad. About how even though God marked my prayers as spam, he so easily slipped into that Mother Theresa role. _

_I kept on thinking about how we convinced him to ditch half of his bar mitzvah so we could go down to the lake for the millionth time and just sit around like retards. His parents were so pissed that night and grounded him for the rest of the summer and even though we all felt sort of guilty, he said that it was totally worth it._

_I kept on thinking about how a week before the first day of freshman year, he was just gone. How he had kept all of his plans to himself and then he just packed up and left without a word. He just left us here in this shitty town to rot. _

_I kept on thinking about how Stan just sat around for most of freshman year, like his life was one giant fucking funeral..._

Kenny stumbled to the edge of the ice as soon as the boy on the stands moved towards the top doors. Stan turned around, raising his eyebrows at Kenny as the boy tossed one skate off after the other and threw his sneakers back on.

"Where are you _going_, Kenny?" Stan called, stopping dead on the ice, "What's wrong?"

Kenny didn't say a word, sprinting to the back doors and stumbling up the stairs to the top floor, his footsteps rumbling off of the concrete walls. He rounded the hallway to the empty and darkened main gym just as the other boy had made it to the double glass doors of the front entrance.

"Kyle!" Kenny yelled, breathing hard.

_Well. I guess there's only one thing left to think:_

_Kyle Broflovski rises from the dead!_

Stopping dead in his tracks, Kyle turned around with his back leaning on the door handle, struggling to keep no expression on his face. "Hey Kenny," he muttered. Kenny stared at him for a second, baffled by how those four years had physically changed the boy. Kyle was definitely taller and definitely appeared older but was still as pale and lanky as ever.

"Don't, Kyle. Just don't," Kenny said, fighting to steady his breathing.

There was a moment of silence between them.

"Don't…what?" Kyle finally said, looking around, his cheeks turning slightly pink.

Kenny didn't say anything, standing stupidly where he was, a good few yards away from Kyle. He looked at him in disbelief, his mouth hanging open and his eyes furrowed.

"I can't even _believe_…," he finally said. Kyle's face broke into a look of total anguish. "How could you _think_…You can't _just_…Why did you…?" Kenny fought it hard, but he felt like an overfilled cup of water, sloshing about. He paused for a moment, trying to control himself, feeling a combination of sadness and anger before his lost friend. In his mind, the words were crystal clear, but he couldn't word them in anyway. Kyle looked on silently, his face filled with guilt as he tugged at the hem of his jacket.

Kenny wiped his nose with the sleeve of his sweater, running a hand through his hair. He made one step towards Kyle with clenched fists, but couldn't bring himself to take another step.

"You know what? I have nothing to say to you. You have a track record of being so eager to leave without saying anything so just…just go." He finally said. Kyle looked at him square in the eyes, trying to communicate everything between them.

"Go if you want," Kenny demanded, more sternly this time. Kyle twitched in his place, opening his mouth to say something before taking a step back, opening one of the glass doors. The sounds of the outside traffic flooded into the silent room. Pausing for a moment, Kyle took one look at his friend, opened his mouth as if he were going to say something but closed it back again.

Kenny glared at him but Kyle didn't move. Finally, he asked with a shaky voice, "Are you going to tell Stan?"

At the mention of Stan, Kenny moved towards Kyle, who backed further out of the door. Finally, the red-head turned around and shuffled away from the gym. Kyle stood, staring at him through the glass, a million things racing through his head as cold sweat slithered up his skin. As Kyle was walking through the vast parking lot, Kenny approached the double doors, threw them open and stood in the cool air.

"You gutted him, Kyle! You absolutely fucking gutted him!"

_Let the record reflect that I don't believe in giving second chances._

_This is your captain signing off,_

_Kenny McCormick_


End file.
